Blood Splatter
by CertifiedInkster
Summary: Set after Reichenbach; John Watson does not take Sherlock's death well.


Hi guys! This is my first ever fanfic so I have high hopes but low expectations :) Happy reading! Reviews, comments, and/or critiques are always appreciated!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to these characters.

Plot credit goes to an anonymous Tumblr post I saw. (Thank you random Tumblr user!)

* * *

 _In, out. In, out._ John focused on breathing the dusty air of 221B Baker Street. _In, out._ He stared down at the gun in his hands. Nearly every day, for over a month, he had field stripped his weapon in this flat. Would today be the day, he wondered. Would he finally have the guts to do it?

Ever since Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's Hospital, he'd considered it. How could he possibly go on without Sherlock? Sherlock, who had proven to him his limp was psychological, who had drugged him, who had read him in a single glance. Sherlock, who had saved him. How could John go on after the fall? What Sherlock had said— that he was a fake, a fraud, an actor playing a game— it wasn't real, and John knew it. He'd never doubted it, not for a moment. There had been something more going on atop St. Bartholomew's Hospital that day. Something had passed between Moriarty and Sherlock that killed them both.

At first John had been in shock. It had all happened so fast: Sherlock's 'note', his jump, the sound of his body hitting the pavement, and then the biker who knocked John down, the bystanders who had pushed John away, the nurses who had whisked Sherlock so quickly away. And then it was over. John was left staring at a closed casket, and a black stone.

But even as he stood there, staring at the cold letters engraved onto that coal-black gravestone, a flicker of doubt remained. Had Sherlock really died? Was his body truly in the ground beneath John's feet? Or was it all simply a trick, a grand illusion meant to defeat the greatest criminal mastermind of all time?

Time passed: first hours, then days, then weeks. He had avoided Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade like the plague. They were just painful reminders of the Someone they all had lost. He'd gone to his psychologist, but she hadn't made things better. In fact, some things were now worse.

About three weeks after that day, John returned to Baker Street. He snuck in, when Mrs. Hudson was out. John went there to contemplate accompanying Sherlock to the grave. After all, if Sherlock no longer lived, what good reason was there for him to continue at it? Sherlock had saved him, and without Sherlock, well, who was left? But as time passed, as day followed day and John sat in 221B Baker Street, silently field stripping his old gun, trying to make a decision, he began to notice things: small things, like a tea cup out where it wasn't before, or a lack of dust where a book had been pulled off a shelf. And so, the doubt grew. Week followed week, and John came to the resolution that Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. He wasn't, in fact, dead. It wasn't possible. Nothing Moriarty had said could have driven Sherlock to kill himself. Nothing at all.

John put the last piece of his gun back into its spot, holding up the clip of bullets in front of him. What would be the point, he wondered. If he died today, would that change anything? Would Sherlock come back? Most certainly he would, for that is what Sherlock does. He returns for dead bodies. But what good would that do John? He'd be dead. Unless…

John slid the clip into his gun and cocked it. Who said the body had to be his own?

* * *

Sherlock's phone beeped. He glanced at it, annoyed, before returning his attention to the body before him. It was fascinating, this case Mycroft had set him on. A serial killing, in his own backyard of London. Thirteen bodies so far, in the span of thirteen days. A single playing card was left with each body, daintily placed on the victim's chest. A jack, queen, and king. There appeared to be no order to the killings, but clearly there was. A murderer never killed like this on a random whim. These were calculated, careful kills. Someone with experience was orchestrating this.

Sherlock's phone beeped again. "Shut up!" he shouted, causing the stray cat in the corner of the room to bolt away.

He gestured towards his phone. "John will you—" Sherlock stopped. He had to stop doing this. John wasn't here. John didn't know he was alive. And, for a time, John couldn't know. Of course he'd checked on him. The man frequented 221B on a regular basis, but at odd hours, when Mrs. Hudson was out, or asleep. Clearly he didn't want to contact her. Sherlock _was_ sorry that he couldn't tell John the truth. John was his only friend, the only man who, to some degree, understood. This hadn't been easy for Sherlock either, this silence. But it was necessary. Sherlock had to wrap up a few things before John could be told.

His phone beeped again, and this time Sherlock turned on it angrily. He snatched it up, swiping the screen to unlock it. Three new texts from Mycroft.

"221B Baker Street— you need to see this"

"Come NOW"

"Sherlock, it's John"

* * *

Sherlock sprinted up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, bursting into the room at the top. Mycroft stood there, and Lestrade, and John. John?

He was kneeling on the floor, covered in blood. So much blood. His hands were dripping. A red carving knife lay on the floor next to his right hand.

Sherlock looked down. A body. A woman, short brown hair, purple skirt. Shattered tea cup on the floor next to her. Three stab wounds in her back.

Sherlock knew this woman. He knew her, but he refused to admit it. He stumbled back, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. A thousand terrified thoughts raced through his mind. No, no, no, no. John wouldn't. Not John.

His mind understood what he was seeing within seconds of stepping into the room. Even before John looked up, or Mycroft said anything, Sherlock knew. But he refused to believe.

He turned and retched, aware now of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock slowly faced the room again, heart balking against mind.

John rolled his head around dramatically to look at him. "Hello, Sherlock," he said, smiling, his teeth red with blood.

"Wha—" Sherlock vaguely pointed with his hand at the body. "No, no, John—" his voice stopped functioning, he couldn't speak.

"Did you like my presents, Sherlock?" John grinned. "I think this one is my favorite. Our very own Mrs. Hudson, eh?" John placed a bloodied ace atop the woman's back. "They told me you were dead, Sherlock." He kept his head down but moved his eyes to peer up at Sherlock, "Looks like I was right."

"No," Sherlock gasped. "No." He took a step forward, but Mycroft pulled him back.

"Put your hands on your head, John." Lestrade ordered. Sherlock realized the man had a gun pointed at his friend. "Put your hands on your head, now!"

John laughed then, a cold, raspy laugh. That laugh wasn't John's, Sherlock thought. "You are not John," Sherlock managed.

John raised his sticky hands and put them on his head, "You think so, Sherlock? Do you THINK SO?" He laughed again, making Sherlock's blood grow cold. "You died, Sherlock. You DIED. What was I supposed to do? Killing myself would be too easy, too… unrewarding."

"Stop."

"So I changed my plans, Sherlock. I knew what your weakness was. I knew, if I made enough noise, you'd return."

"Stop it, John."

"And here you are, Sherlock. Here. You. Are."

"No."

John stood up, tipping his head slightly. "Looks like I was right."

The End.

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks for reading, y'all!


End file.
